Talking Clock

The Hands Of Time

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind. - Hawthorne

Never have I been so conscious of time - of that which remains to me, of its passing, its tides - than now. It's my tenth year as manager in a high technology center. Work, it seems to me, has been a juggling act, a series of balls and blades and flaming torches to be kept in the air for as long as it takes. 

In the last couple of years, my Pyramid talking clock has been my wingman. Primly perched atop my desk console, it announces the time as I arrive. It.Is.Seven.O'Clock.A.M. I grumble, Bright though not early, but on the dot. I'll check the download, I acquiesce submissively to the first order of the day. My smile is thin. I fix it with a direct gaze. It peers at me, amused.

Pyra is triangular, a petite four by almost six inches tall with a three-inch girth. Slim and lightweight, it faithfully alerts me with a loud signal to upcoming departmental meetings. All hands on deck. I nod in resigned agreement. Testing new operating system, the summons blares. Coming! I flare back in a rasping whisper.

Around midday I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair, thereafter impatiently pressing my clock's top button. Is it time for lunch yet? It tells me, in a clear androgynous voice. It.Is.Twelve.O'Clock.P.M. I sniff gratefully. On the way out, I check the beeper tethered to the pocket of my lab coat in case I need to be pulled back from my delicious seven-layer burrito lunch to troubleshoot the 'screen of death,' our epithet for a computer freeze. 

Over the dense repetitiousness of my workweek, certain things have occurred like clockwork: beta-testing new procedures, writing instructions, training lab techs, battling the call, System down! It's the latter that makes everyone scamper behind the scenes, while a low-level but well-spoken technician is sent upfront to assure users, Just a hiccup. All will be well in a nanosecond.

In retrospect, I'm not sure why I've bought this timepiece. Maybe because its hourly reminder diminishes my sense of solitude. Maybe because punctuality is the virtue of the bored. I lean toward it slightly and lower my voice, parodying a confidence. I can't be late when Big Brother calls, can I?

It seems like a long day. I feel exhausted, not the clean exhaustion of completing a workout at the gym, but a kind of weariness, the feeling of being transparent, insubstantial, as though my body would offer no resistance if the wind had chosen to lift me into the sky. I'm squirming in my seat.

Then, joy of joys! Pyra announces, robot-like, in a monotone voice. It.Is.5.O'Clock.P.M. I stifle a yawn. I bid it goodbye, waving my hands dismissively. See you in the morning, I say almost inaudibly. It looks like it's nodding, absent-mindedly. 

I move my mouth in the motion of a smile I do not feel.

Big Ben

The Hands Of Time

How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. 

My goodness how the time has flown. - Dr. Seuss

It's my first European trip. With arms folded, I hold my gaze for a long time. Big Ben! 

My eyebrows flicker in recognition of one of London's best-known landmarks. It's the Great Bell of the clock at the north end of Westminster Palace in London. Stunning! I say under my breath, my eyes crinkling with pleasure. 

Everything is in perfect focus. The tower stands 316 feet high against a clear and boundless sky. A massive thirteen tons of creation! All my sentences rise at the end like helium balloons.

My expression changes to one of curiosity as I listen to a litany of Big Ben's credentials.
This incredible mammoth creation has been called the prince of timekeepers - the biggest, most accurate four-faced striking and chiming clock in the world. Its clock dials are set in an iron frame 23 feet in diameter, supporting 312 pieces of opal glass. The surround of the dials is gilded. 

I clear my throat as I read from the tourist brochure, Domine salvam fac reginam nostram Victoriam Primam. It's the Latin inscription on the clock dial's base. I let my voice trail for a moment. It's a prayer of supplication, O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First. I assent to the invocation. So be it, lowering my voice like a child exchanging secrets. I piously raise my eyes to the sky. 

For an instant, everything is unnaturally still. Then Big Ben exhales a thousand sounds. The brush of the wind over the iron-framed spire echoes into a thousand and one tapping sounds, moving from place to place through the far bank of the Thames and Westminster Bridge. Its voice reverberates, as pigeons lift from the eaves of the tower, squawking at the intrusion. 

I walk along, a little starstruck, as the deep pealing of its bell sweeps the city in steady, rhythmic strokes. I listen, caught up in its constant, knowing pattern, the simplicity of it, the slowness. 

It feels like this whole moment is fragile somehow and, if it shifts too much, it might break.

My Lord, What A Morning

When Time Stood Still

At 8:07 am on January 13, 2018, a cell phone emergency alert warning of a ballistic missile threat inbound to Hawaii was sent to island residents. It took officials nearly 40 minutes to correct the false alarm.

My Lord, what a morning,

When the stars begin to fall, you'll hear the trumpet sound,

To wake the nations underground. - Negro Spiritual

I remember the day well.

It was a picture-perfect morning in Waikiki. Dawn came all too quickly. I awoke to a spill of sunshine on my face.

I pushed open the shutters, allowing the soft light to wash into the room. An egret that had perched on an anchored canoe at the Outrigger's went off in a sudden clap of wings into the deep, cloudless blue of the sky. At the water's edge, a group of surfers walked past, holding their boards. In the distance, the swells were slowly rising, forming waves that seemed to collide before immediately cresting again.

Beyond this side of the island, there was only vastness.

When the initial cell phone alert broke at 8:07 am urging residents of Hawaii to seek shelter because of an impending missile strike, it seemed as if all had been compressed into one mournful note. It was an elegy. A requiem.

I heard the words, but they refused to form any meaning. I sat there in painful silence for a minute. I heard my voice slowly swallowed by it, and couldn't work out what to do with my hands.

So, this was how it would end - a warm gust of wind would exhale my way and I'd disappear forever. All glory would vanish. All greatness gone. It confounded me how fragile human life was – how lives were nothing but dead letters on the wind, scattered and disposed of, burned or thrown away.

Pacific Command had previously given an estimated fifteen minutes for people to take shelter. It wasn't much time at all, plus where does one go?

Time had slowed to an agonizing crawl. It blurred past as if in a fever dream.

In those fifteen minutes of what I thought would be my final morning, I roamed the deep places of my soul in search of familiar faces – of family, of those whom I love, and even those whom I might miss, no matter how little I had in common with them. As I did that, in an instant, a thousand secrets I had built and saved flooded my mind.

My face softened at the memory of the home I grew up in, miles across the ocean: the inescapable place, the place to which my heart's compass always turned. I couldn't stop the flow of details, the flow of images in my mind.

I shut my eyes for a moment as I bade farewell to everything, and at once everything turned in perfect synchronicity. I felt a kind of tranquility.

Then at 8:45 am, a cell phone alert broke my reverie. The first warning had been a false alarm. Repeat. False Alarm.

It was as if a heavenly choir had started singing and releasing doves of peace. Thank God! What an outrageous gift.

There is going to be a Next Day.

Glockenspiel

The Hands Of Time

It is a gorgeous morning, the sky so blue and the air so sweet that it will have lifted the heart of the most sullen person. Everything is so alive, just sort of pulsating, moving all the time.

I'm among those on Marienplatz in Munich who are all faces with mouths open as if to receive honey from the sky. A hopeful grin on my face, I crane my neck waiting for the town hall Glockenspiel to come to life. Daily at 11 am and 5 pm, and in the summer at noon, it chimes and portrays two stories from the 16th century. I check my watch. Eleven am. It's time! 

On cue, 43 bells start chiming. Life-sized figures come into view, reenacting the fantastically expensive and sumptuous marriage of Bavarian Duke Wilhelm to Renata of Lorraine in 1568. 

I'm swept up by the enthusiasm around me. I visualize the solemnity of the church ceremony. The bride will bat her eyes at the groom as the priest instructs, Bitte antworten Sie mit 'Ja.' Please answer, 'Yes.' She takes a deep breath, taking her time to answer, Ja. The couple take each other's right hand. Ah, without love, everything else is meaningless, I croon. 

A royal joust with mechanical knights on horseback follows. I can almost hear a squire yelling out, Is there among you any gentleman who for the love of his lady is willing to try with me some feat of arms? 

The challenge will be answered, I will deliver him from his vow. Let him make haste and come out of the castle. After the squires have taken their stations, the tilt begins. Glaring in outrage, they meet each other roughly with spears.

I'm now looking with more intensity at the next scenario, the coopers' dance. The coopers, who make the barrels in which beer is stored, are highly respected in this city known for its breweries. Twenty-five colorfully-dressed figures swing hoops of fir branches. 

A festive atmosphere prevails. A man scurries over, puts a hand to a lady's waist, and whispers, Lass uns tanzen. Let's dance. He whirls her around the dance floor. She keeps the rhythm on light feet, dancing gracefully. They look happy as they spin around in circles making me think that after the music stops, they will still dance to some melody unheard by mortal ears. 

For a finale, a small golden rooster at the top of the Glockenspiel chirps quietly, Kikeriki! three times, marking the end of the spectacle. Everything has seemed to happen at once within the fifteen minutes of the show.

I stride through the plaza, the sound of my footsteps preceding me. I don't know how long I'd been walking, but I feel I've traveled a great distance outside time. With light steps and an easy heart, I cross toward St. Peter, the oldest parish church in the city. 

All has been merged in a dream as extraordinary as it is perfect.

First Watch

The Hands Of Time

The butterfly counts not months but moments, 

and has time enough. - Tagore

I'm in high spirits. I'm turning twelve and graduating valedictorian of my elementary class. In two months, I'll be a high school freshman riding the Blumentritt jeepney to and from Roxas High. A milestone achievement for me! I mumble with a broad grin.

But what makes me very proud and preoccupied as well is my commencement gift of a Waltham wrist watch from Godmother Esang. I love how its gold nugget-style band glistens against my skin. I beam in admiration of the contrast between its black dial and gold-tone face. Look! I show it off to Eldest Brother. It's automatic! He gives me an appropriately impressed smile.

I've been so attached to my new possession that I'd only reluctantly relinquish it on the tocador dresser to take a bath. But most other times, I'd wear it with a sense of dizzy exhilaration, walking around the house as if I were walking on air, swinging my arms back and forth.

If I could, I would have flown, punched through walls, and gone faster than a speeding locomotive to single-handedly give the answer to anyone who dares to formulate a question with the word time in it. But not without ceremony. I'd furrow my brows as I narrow my eyes thoughtfully and peer over my Waltham's face. Planning my pause to perfection, I then loudly clear my throat and answer grandly in my most professional voice, Hrmpp... it's 3 pm - or whatever the time happens to be.

Ask me what family activity is forthcoming and, with every ounce of authority I can muster, I'd announce, Time for dinner! or Dance-O-Rama is starting! - then walk away giggling like a maniac.

Have I mentioned that I also wear my watch to bed? I'd lie awake as long as I can and with an outstretched arm, let the half-light glimmer on it. As the day ebbs, I turn toward the shy moon. I like watching it stare down at my Waltham.

Then, at that fluid boundary between night and dawn, the hands of my watch dutifully point to six o'clock. Tandang rooster in assonance lets out a loud, Kikirikí! Up on my light feet, I tug back the curtains and squint at the small portion of the sun's rays illuminating the sky. The fainter stars have begun to disappear. I hurriedly wake up the brothers. Gising na! 

Later, as Mum sings tonelessly to herself in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, I'd excitedly assure her, I'll keep an eye on the time so Dadee won't be late for work. Um... and also, I continue breathlessly, I'll be sure to let you know when it's time to tune in to 'Gulong Ng Palad.' Literally translated as 'Wheel of Fortune,' 'Gulong' is her favorite afternoon soap opera. I can tell she appreciates my over-indulgent helpfulness because she nods in seeming satisfaction.

With a sense of elation, I give my Waltham a gentle pat, as my eyes dance to the transparency of the morning.